


in the space between seconds

by popoyoy11



Series: good habits [4]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bat Family, Batfamily Feels, Brothers, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Gen, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2018-04-06
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:22:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7675312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popoyoy11/pseuds/popoyoy11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles that happens in the good habits AU. Chapters to be added as it goes.</p><p>Most recent chapter:</p><p>Afternoon naps are something he had never gotten to do. Between his anxiety and his parents’ demands, afternoons in his childhood meant violin lessons or being trapped inside the house relentlessly wondering whether his parents had forgotten to go home again or not. At the ripe age of nineteen, Tim is only starting to appreciate the activity.</p><p>In which boys get warm naps because they deserve them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. words thrown together

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So I'm currently working on part three of the good habits AU. BUT while I was working on it I had a lot of plot bunnies running around in my head. So I decided to make this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's their language, a secret, their secret. Something only the two of them would get. Something private to latch on to when the nights gets too bad and words fail them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me because the first chapter is a Tim & Dick angst. I just have a lot of feelings for these two losers ugh, and I feel like there isn't enough Tim & Dick stories in the world. If any characterizations are off, forgive me as I have only started reading comics recently.

Dick starts tapping his fingers against the small of Tim's back. Creating a seemingly random pattern onto warm skin. If anybody catches onto it they would think it's gibberish. Tim wouldn't; he'd understand. It's their language, a secret, _their_ secret. Something only the two of them would get. Something private to latch on to when the nights gets too bad and words fail them. For the times when the monsters chase them into their dreams and they can't tell what's real and what's not. They used to spell comforting sentences into each other's skin, communicating soundlessly in the darkness of Dick's bedroom. Even talking with it in front of Bruce, sometimes. Sharing secret smiles and silent laughter afterwards.

Dick doesn't remember the last time he'd used their language; it seems like a lifetime ago. His heart aches at the thought.

Tonight when Dick finally worked up the courage and sneaked into Tim’s apartment, waited for Tim in his bed, it isn't as much for Tim as it is for Dick. The shock and relief of having Tim back home— _breathing and alive_ —hasn’t left him yet. Having Tim curled up against him in the darkness after _months_ feels surreal. This is where he belongs, safe (as safe as they can be in their line of work anyway) with Dick in Gotham, not halfway across the world playing tag with assassins.

Dick kisses the top of Tim's head, basking in the familiar floral scent of Tim's shampoo. He should have been there for him more. God knows how _twisted_ the boy’s mind can be. After all he’s lost, after all that he’s been through (Dick has lost people too but his pain is different, he’s had time to let it scab over, have had years and years to let it simmer into a dull ache at the back of his mind, but Tim didn’t have that. He had his world ripped right out of his hands, had the people he loved robbed so violently and so quickly, one after another—even if some of them came back in the end). Dick should have known better—no matter how _strong_ Tim always looks. He can't imagine how his choice had affected Tim. Despite it being the right one (Dick’s stance on that hasn’t changed, Damian needed someone to guide him).

Dick repeats the words over and over again on Tim's skin. He needs Tim to _get_ it, to get that Tim is precious to him, too. That he'll always be Dick's little brother first and that _nobody_ can replace him. Not _Damian_ , not anybody. Robin is just a title ( _lies, lies, lies_ , he can feel Tim saying, Robin is not just an anything, it's a symbol, it's larger than the both of them; larger than life). But Dick doesn't _care_ because Tim will always matter more than that. More than _Robin._ Dick's breath catches when he feels Tim's mouth move against his collarbone. A bare whisper.

_Dick_

Tim moves, pulling away from his loose embrace and effectively cutting Dick mid-sentence. He gazes at Dick, eyes too blue in the darkness, too deep, too _tired_ for someone his age. Tim offers him a small smile, soft and uncertain and spreads his palm against Dick's heart, tapping out a short reply.

Dick’s breath compresses in his chest, lungs collapsing on themselves.

A word.

_Time_

Tim is asking him for _time_.

He nods slowly. Dick can do that; he can give Tim time. Time for them to find their dynamic again, for Tim to look at Dick and not feel betrayal burn through his veins. For Dick to look at Tim and not wish things were different, that he didn’t have to hurt Tim like he did.

Dick sucks in a shaky breath, opening his mouth. “Now?” he asks.

Tim shakes his head, stares up at him. And at that moment Dick has never wished so hard that he could take the world from Tim's shoulders. The boy (and that's all he is, isn't he? Still just a boy) whispers, “Now is okay, tomorrow.” Tim’s fingers begin moving on Dick’s arm, starting up a rhythm.

Dick looks at Tim wistfully, smiling. He kisses Tim’s forehead before crushing the teen against his chest again. Tim melts into him almost reflectively. Dick only lets go so he can find Tim’s wrist, tapping his words onto Tim’s pulse points like they used to do _oh_ so _long_ ago.

Tomorrow Tim will need his time. Tomorrow Tim will disappear on him ( _again_ ) to look for himself. But tonight, it’s okay.

Tonight, it’s just them and their secret little language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how did it go? Did you like it? Let me know with a comment below! ;)
> 
> Visit me on my [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)


	2. distraction is good for the soul (but so is ice cream)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason gets his aggression out.
> 
> Hint: It's not the way you think it'd be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no explanation for this. Apologies for anything out of character.
> 
> Question: If fluffy fics are ice cream, then what are mine?

Jason hates it. Hates the way his bones seem to shake. Hates the way his lungs won't listen to him. He hates how a sentence can take him apart like this. How Bruce's words still make him feel so wrong. Make him feel like he's just a bunch of mismatched puzzles turned inside out. It's not fair that Bruce still has so much power over him. Didn't Jason decide Bruce doesn't matter anymore? What a load of bullshit. He needs to get out, needs to breathe; smoke, punch something. Needs to—

"Jason?"

Of course that's when the fucking Replacement decides to come looking for him. No, not Replacement anymore, it's Tim now. It's Tim because Jason is doing this, trying to coexist within the same space that the family does. Trying to scrape and save whatever ties he has left with them. Bruce may have taken all that he had in the past but Jason won't let him do the same to the others.

Jason is different now.

He's getting better.

He _cares_.

"Yeah?" and Jason hates the roughness in his voice when he replies. Hates what it implies. It took Tim long enough to start talking to him and he's not going to fuck it up now by letting his loathing for the Replacement (no, _Replacement_ doesn't exist anymore. It’s Tim, _Red Robin,_ he's Tim and he's his own person) come to the surface. He risks making eye contact with Tim, who's standing a few feet in front of him, a book clutched in one hand. His eyes are on Jason, analyzing, calculating. Stupid fucking genius, Tim must have figured out what was wrong with him the moment he steps into the room. Jason meets his stare head on, challenging him to call Jason out. Feels the familiar anger starting to simmer under his skin when Tim doesn’t waver.

To his surprise, Tim averts his eyes first. It's the kind of backing down that he would never associate with the younger man. Jason catches the book that Tim throws at him with ease while Tim sits beside him on the couch, legs stretching out over Jason's lap. Jason goes rigid. He wonders if Tim is honest-to-god crazy. Said boy leans back against the arm rest and nods his head to the book casually.

"I need you to explain that book to me," Tim orders. Jason frowns, taken aback by Tim's request and casualness. He looks at the cover of the book, gives Tim a suspicious sidelong glance. It's one of Dick's YA sci-fi novels that has too much romance in it rather than the adventure it's supposed to have. What's a sci-fi nerd like Tim doing with a book like this?

"What's a Trekkie nerd like you doing with one of Dick's white stereotypical novels?"                      

Tim shrugs. "Cass wanted to read it so she told me to read it first," he explains matter-of-factly. "You've read it, haven't you?"

Jason raises an eyebrow. He doesn't know what Tim is going for here but he supposes that as long as the kid isn't plotting revenge against him he could entertain him. It’s better to let his restless energy out by ranting than by—Jason doesn’t finish the thought, he swallows. "I have, what do you take me for?" 

Jason is thrown off when Tim smiles at him, it’s a small smile, just a barely-there curve of his lips, but coming from _Tim_ it feels _huge_.

The tight coil of rope inside his chest loosens a little at that smile.

"Considering the leather jacket getup? Oh I don't know, a typical thug?"

Jason snorts, surprising himself. He leans back against the couch. "Well you better get your comfy pants on because this _thug_ is about to blow all mothers of stereotypes by being a _decent person who doesn’t read trash like this_ ,” Jason explains, lets disgust drip down his voice. “Starting with an in-depth analysis about why this book fucking _sucks_."  

The next hour Jason proceeds to tear down the novel problem by problem. Starting with the sexism all the way to the problematic ending and the author's unfairness to the characters.

At the end Tim looks like he doesn't know whether to be amused or horrified. "Oh god, Jay. I asked you to explain the novel to me not _dissuade_ me from reading it."

Jason shrugs. Who uses words like _dissuade_ in a conversation? Only Tim does, rich boys and their _posh_ words. "Tomato, potato," he says.

"I'm pretty sure it's to-may-to, to-mah-to," Tim points out.

"So?” Jason raises an eyebrow. “What's the point of having words if I can't use them to make obscure references to my liking?"

"I don't know,” Tim drawls out the last word. “Talking, maybe? Communicating, all that jazz?"

"Pssh," Jason waves him off, grinning. "Communicating is for people who hasn't died."

"Sure, Jay, sure," Tim deadpans. Jason smirks at the kid. Such a smartass.

Suddenly Tim's forgotten phone buzzes in his lap. "Oh crap." The boy fumbles to open it, eyes widening fractionally.

"Who died?"

Tim cringes. "I was supposed to meet Cass and Steph for ice cream five minutes ago." He sighs. "Cass is going to kill me," he mutters.

Tim retracts his legs from Jason's lap (much to Jason's dismay, he was just getting used to the warmth) and stands up. He pauses halfway to the door when he suddenly looks back, blinks at Jason. "Well?"

Jason furrows his eyebrows. "Well what, Timbo?"

"Are you coming or not?"

"I wasn't aware I was invited to your little _tea party_."

Tim rolls his eyes. "Of course you're invited," the _idiot_ Tim doesn't say is implied. "Who do you think is my ride?"

Jason stares at him disbelievingly. Waits a beat, two, before laughing loudly at Tim and his words. He shakes his head. The _nerve_ of this kid.

It isn't until Jason's speeding down the road with Tim's arms wound around his stomach that he realizes he hasn't thought about Bruce and his words for the couple of hours Tim was there with him.

Jason grins under his helmet. Stupid, thoughtful _little shit._

If he revs his engine and goes a tiny bit faster because he knows Tim likes the speed (if the delighted whoop! Tim yells out from behind him says anything), well, nobody will know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answer: Diabetes.
> 
> You know the drill guys, did you like it? Did you not? Let me know with a comment below! ;)
> 
> Visit me on my [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)


	3. shove a spoon at it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does one stop Damian from talking?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is up! It is September and I am dying. Med school sucks guys, 0/10 would not recommend. This is just a bit I managed to cook up (heh) because class starts at nine (bleh I actually still have to read about enzymes but who the fuck cares about enzymes that's right nobody). If any of you is subscribed to the series I'm sorry because I haven't posted the Bruce one, it's not even finished yet. Honestly I did not expect med school to be this busy. 
> 
> I have a headcanon that Damian is very picky about his food. Like Tim would probably eat anything that you put in front of him, Dick's blood is basically made up of cereal, and Jason cooks. So, in my head Jason found out that Damian's really picky and wouldn't eat if it's not Alfred who cooks it and Alfred is out of town and he heard that Damian isn't eating much and basically that's why he decided to cook in the manor? Wow look at me making headcanons of headcanons. I basically live for Jason-Damian brotherly bonding anyway.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy?

“Todd, what are you doing.”

The sentence comes out more as a statement than a question. Damian eyes Jason suspiciously, leaning against the kitchen counter, fingers rapping against the marble impatiently.

Jason throws him a glance and blinks.

“’Sup demon child.”

“What are you _doing_.”

This time Jason turns his whole body to face him, Damian forgets sometimes how large Jason actually is. Even with an apron on him he looks threatening. His eyes automatically scan Jason’s body for any signs of visible weapons. He finds none, Damian glares at the former robin.

Jason cocks his hips, gives Damian the same calculating look. “Cooking.”

Damian’s eyebrows furrow. “Why are you cooking in the _manor_.”

“Because,” Jason starts, focusing back to the simmering pot of _something_ on the stove.

After five beats, Damian feels like has had enough of Jason’s shit.

“Because _what_ , _Todd._ ”

Jason shrugs and gives him a smirk. “Don’t worry babybat, I’ll share with you, I promise.”

“That’s not the _point_ , you are in my father’s house without his _permission_ and—“

Damian is promptly cut off when a spoon is shoved into his mouth. His training immediately kicks in and he tries to make a grab at Jason, who only sidesteps and dodges his attack swiftly.

“Taste it,” Jason challenges him.

Damian glares at the older man and spits out the food in his mouth onto the sink. “No.”

Jason only raises an eyebrow and sticks another spoon into his mouth. Damian _does not_ flail his hands.

“Just fucking taste it,” he says again, “is it lacking oregano?”

Damian scowls but chews, eyes widening when he tastes the food. He eyes the concoction cooking away on the heat, and Jason, and then the food again. “No.”

“That seems to be our favorite word today, isn’t it?” Jason sneers.

Damian scoffs, pulls up a stool and starts playing with his phone. “Shut up and cook, Todd.”

“Not going to tell _daddy_ on me now?” Jason asks him, turning off the stove and reaching for two plates.

Damian pauses, raising an eyebrow, still trying to burn holes into Jason’s head with his eyes. “I am if you keep bothering me with your incessant questions.”

“ _Such_ a charmer.”

“Don’t patronize me, Todd,” Damian replies, “I can break your arm in five different places if it pleases me.”

Jason rolls his eyes.

He sets two plates on the kitchen counter, pulling up a stool himself and starts digging into his food immediately. He catches Damian glaring and stages a confused look on his face. “I’m sorry, did you want something, _your highness_?”

Damian stares at him, Jason raises an eyebrow. The _don’t make me ask for it_ hangs in the air around them like a fruit fly.

Damian knows he will never win a glaring contest against the Red Hood so he huffs, crosses his arms and swallows his pride.

“Food,” he grits out, a blush blooming on his cheeks. He can feel himself internally dying at Jason’s smug look.

Jason snorts. “Well,” he starts, pushing a plate of fragrant food to Damian, “since you asked so _nicely_ , and I _did_ promise I’d share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was short wasn't it. Alas! Let me know if you liked it or if you hated it. Your comments fuel me through this hell that is PBLs.
> 
> Visit me on my [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Have a good day everyone!


	4. you should say for yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Lil bro, y’should go to bed,” Dick reminds him. Dick used to ruffle his hair on long nights and tell him to go to sleep, saying how it would make Tim a bit taller. After his second year as Red Robin, Tim had stopped waiting for that growth spurt to hit. Still, Dick’s words would forever be Tim’s own personal gentle-taps-on-the-wrists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOOOO BOY i made this out of my own headcanon: "Okay but which member of the batfam would take care of a person before they could even take care of themself? Like it’ll be two in the morning they haven’t slept in a week and they’ll meet somebody or smth and the fuss over this somebody for only sleeping 4 hours in two days even when that batfam member’s shirt is inside out and theyre wearing mismatched shoes because theyre just so exhausted"

“Tim.”

“Timmy.”

“Timmyyyy.”

Tim stares at the computer screen in front him until his eyes start to burn. The fact that the last time he had glanced at the digital clock its red numbers had been blinking a steady seven—eight hours ago probably has something to do with it.

“Timmmyyy,” comes the wailing from where he had last seen Dick, not long before he got into this trance-like state this afternoon. He’d came down to the cave to the noisy whirring of machinery, his older brother had been minding a broken piece of tech that had somehow gotten stuck on ice from patrol on one corner of the cave.

“Yes, Dick?” Tim rolls out the words from his mouth slowly, feels them rough as sandpaper. He’s never gotten rid of the bad habit of never consuming anything when he’s on a—on _another plane_ , as Kon likes to put it.

“Lil bro, y’should go to bed,” Dick reminds him. Dick used to ruffle his hair on long nights and tell him to go to sleep, saying how it would make Tim a bit taller. After his second year as Red Robin, Tim had stopped waiting for that growth spurt to hit. Still, Dick’s words would forever be Tim’s own personal gentle-taps-on-the-wrists.

“In a minute,” he insists.

“Timmmyyy,” comes the whine again. Tim stops. Sighs, the corner of his eyes tighten.

“Soon, Dick.” Bruce always taught them to never abandon work. He’d never done so as Robin, and he’s not about to start doing it now.

“Timmy,” Dick starts again. With his chiding comes a warm weight across Tim’s shoulders, Dick had lain his arm across it. He slides forward, draping his torso on Tim’s back, his cheek meeting Tim’s own and his body encasing Tim in a loose embrace.

“Y’should sleep,” Dick slurs at him, his hair tickling Tim’s neck where he’s muffled his mouth on Tim’s clothes.

Tim frowns, his fingers still. Tim glances up at the monitor above him, the one displaying murder rates in stark white digits against a black background. His eyes widen when he catches a glimpse of their reflection. Tim clears his throat.

“Uh, Dick?” He pries Dick’s arms away from him slowly, disentangling limbs and ducking his head under. True enough, Dick is leaning half his bodyweight on Tim and when the bookend goes… Let’s just say Tim can’t thank the Gods enough that he manages to catch Dick before he faceplants onto the floor and break a family treasure (his face).

He grips the older man’s shoulders, tries to keep him in a mostly upright position. Dick seems to snap out of it instantly, flailing away from Tim’s hands. “Timmy,” he says, cocking his hands on his hips, making a very picturesque mother figure. He’s only missing the apron and the jeans. “Go. To. Sleep.”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“Dick,” he starts slowly, “your shirt is on backwards.”

“Huh what?” Dick looks down immediately, his face morphs into surprise, horror, before settling on resignation and confusion.

“Uh,” Dick offers, unhelpfully.

Tim looks down at his brother’s shoes. “Also,” he continues, can't help the corners of his lips from lifting up into a smirk, “your shoes are kind of… not right.”

Dick follows his gaze to where they rest at his feet, one sporting a black and blue sport shoe and the other a shiny leather dress-shoe.

“How in the hell,” Dick exhales.

“Dick, how long have you been awake?”

“Um. Thirty-six hours?”

Tim leans his elbow against the counter of the batcomputer. “What day is it?”

“Uhhhh,” Dick begins, “Tuesday?”

Tim grins, or tries to hide it, at least. “Dick, it’s Wednesday.”

Dick gives him a look of disbelief. Complete with the wide eyes and the O-shaped mouth. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I be lying?” Tim asks, he taps on a few keyboards and brings up the calendar. “See? Wednesday.”

“Then ‘ve been awake for,” Dick interrupts his own sentence with a yawn, “forty-eight hours, probably.”

Tim shakes his head, smiling amusedly. “Okay, hotshot, wait a sec.” He turns to the computer and types out a few commands. It makes a whirring sound before the screens go completely blank.

“Alright.” Tim links his elbow with Dick’s, half-dragging the stumbling man with him. “We are going upstairs and we are going to sleep.”

“Gotta get back to,” another yawn, “’haven.” Dick finishes, he blinks his eyes blearily against the bright lights of the manor.

“Nah,” Tim waves his free hand in the air. “I’m sure Bruce won’t mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EYY THANK YOU FOR READING, hit me up on [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)


	5. flower power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What? What did you do?” Tim inquires, putting down his pen and reaching for his hair.
> 
> Jason slaps his hand away. “No you’ll ruin it,” he says, “also why do you always think I’m doing weird things to you? I’m hurt, truly and deeply hurt, Timbo. You can’t just make assumptions on a dead guy you know? It hurts our dead feelings.”
> 
> Tim stifles a giggle from coming out. “Oh god, you’re so dramatic.”
> 
> Jason gasps. “How dare you,” he whispers.
> 
> Tim holds his forefinger and thumb close to each other. “Can you hear that? I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin for your sorrows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some things you need to know before reading this ficlet:  
> 1\. It happens in the good habits universe, so no shipping.  
> 2\. Tim's costume is his unternet costume.  
> 3\. This is inspired by that one ryan potter flower pic... you know the one  
> 4\. Jason is OOC because... I need him to be soft, like idk dude the guy has layers okay he's like a fucking onion makin' me cry all the time  
> 5\. I basically think boy + flower = hot so like  
> 6\. Yeah

Tim sighs as he loosens the scrunchie from his ponytail. It was previously confining his hair to his scalp. Murderously, if he might add. He runs his hand gently through the waves of black hair, freeing the strands and feeling the soft texture of it fall onto his face and through his fingers. When he lets them go it goes down past his shoulder, almost reaching his mid back. Tim is eternally grateful that he’s been blessed with good hair genes. Otherwise it would be a pain to take care of his, what with the vigilante thing and all. Also he gets a kick from people confusing what gender he is when he’s in costume all the time.

“Huh,” somebody makes a noise behind him. “Your hair is getting long.”

Tim turns to find Jason lounging on his bed, head on the end and feet propped up on his pillows. The older man is observing him, laid carefully on his chest is a copy of Pride and Prejudice.

 _His_ copy of Pride and Prejudice. Tim knows because he spilled coffee on his when he read the book, and the one Jason has right now just happens to have a big brown spot on the title.

Tim pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath.

“Jay,” he starts.

“Timbo.”

“Jay,” he starts again, “how many times have I told you not to sneak into my room?”

“Well technically—“

Tim starts fumbling with the bracelets and watch on his wrist while he fumes on. “Also could you please get your feet off my pillows? My head goes there when I sleep you know. I mean I know that you were ra—”

“Well _technically_ ,” Jason presses, “you don’t live here anymore so I wouldn’t count it as sneaking into someone’s room.”

“ _Technically,_ Jason—“

“Also I know you sleep with Dick these days if you stay here so like, no.”

“ _Jason._ Stop interru—”

“Nope. No. I refuse to move. If you want to use your ‘old room’ learn to coexist with me, conformist,” Jason says, sending a pointed look at the multitudes of jewelries Tim is taking off of his person.

Tim stops to gape at Jason. The younger makes an undignified noise from the back of his throat. “Conformist?” He squeaks out.

Jason throws his hands up and groans. “Now look what you did, you’ve thrown me out of my reading mood,” he complains.

“What _I_ did?” Tim flails and exclaims, his eyes wide.

Jason sighs grievously and shakes his head. “I can’t believe it, all the manners in this house really did die with me.”  The man promptly stands up, stretching up and putting the book back in Tim’s bookshelf. Tim rolls his eyes but says nothing, just crosses his arms and waits for Jason to get out.

But who is Jason if he doesn’t throw Tim off his curve? He doesn’t immediately walk out of the room like any person would do. Nope, he marches and stands in front of Tim like a man with a purpose. Before the latter can say or do anything, Jason is already patting his head and running his fingers through his hair. Tim is taken aback, but like any sane person faced with a person who had previously tried to murder them before, he stands his ground.

(Hey, Tim may give people too many chances, but Jason more than deserves his.)

“Hm,” Jason says, “I’d recommend something like Dove, to y’know, get rid of the greasiness,” he comments. Then the man has the _gall_ to wipe his hand on Tim’s shirt.

Tim splutters, he turns red and swats Jason’s hand away, shoving him back and effectively giving distance between them. “Shut up, I haven’t washed my hair today.”

Jason shrugs and shakes his head. “Kids these days,” he mutters, before sashaying away from Tim’s bedroom.

Tim flounders. “You’re only two years older than I am!” He finally yells after Jason’s retreating figure.

-

The next few hours finds Tim showered and dressed, sitting on the floor of his room with papers strewn haphazardly around him. He’s chewing on a pen that might or might not be toxic for humans and so drowned in his work that he doesn’t realize when somebody sneaked into his room.

“Straighten your back, Timmy.”

Tim gives out an incoherent noise as a reply. Which, in his brain, could be interpreted as a no, if the person on the other side tries hard enough.

Instead of silence, he feels somebody tap his back.

“C’mon Timmy-boy, work with me. Up, up,” the person orders.

Tim’s instinct is to tell them to go to hell, but he doesn’t. He figures that if he does what the person wants they might go away. He grumbles but he does what he’s told.

“Now head up.”

“Huh?”

“Head up, Timothy, I know you can do it.”

“ _Jay?_ Jason?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out,” Jason deadpans from behind him.

“What are you doing?” Tim tries to turn around to look at Jason but what he gets is a hand on his head.

“Oh no, please don’t bother for my sake. You go do you, just keep your head up for me wouldn’t you? Picture perfect posture, I know you rich kids are used to it.”

“Wha—Jason,” Tim whines. Honest-to-god whines. Something he wouldn’t have done half a year ago.

“ _Dude,_ just stay fucking still and keep working, I ain’t here to bother ya, I just need your hair.”

Tim shuts up then. He’s curious enough to want to know more, but lazy and grateful enough that Jason isn’t apparently here to interrupt him or dare him into another game of annoy-the-hell-out-of-Bruce. He shrugs. “Okay,” he says, before zooming in to his paper once again.

After that, everything is quiet. Occasionally he feels Jason’s finger on his scalp, not massaging or scratching, just sort of running through his hair and… braiding it, Tim guesses. He’s definitely doing something to it. It’s kind of nice, actually, and Tim doesn’t mind. Jason gets weird once in a while but in their family, who doesn’t? Once, Tim found Dick watching TV while doing a handstand in the living room, it would’ve been normal because Dick has always been a little bit hyperactive, but he when he went back to the room an hour later, Dick was still in the same position. And there was that one time with Cass and purple metal paint.

Now _that_ was interesting.

He gets snapped out of his work when Jason murmurs a quiet “Done.”

“What? What did you do?” Tim inquires, putting down his pen and reaching for his hair.

Jason slaps his hand away. “No you’ll ruin it,” he says, “also why do you always think I’m doing weird things to you? I’m hurt, _truly_ and _deeply_ hurt, Timbo. You can’t just make assumptions on a dead guy you know? It hurts our dead feelings.”

Tim stifles a giggle from coming out so his voice comes out high and squeaky. He can't bring himself to care, though. “Oh god, you’re so dramatic.”

Jason gasps. Tim knows, just _knows_ that the older boy is clutching his chest dramatically. “How dare you,” he whispers, the drama queen.

Tim holds his forefinger and thumb close together. “Can you hear that? I’m playing the world’s tiniest violin for your sorrows.”

That earns him a snort from Jason. Tim grins, proud of the reaction he gets.

“Here, hold this.” Jason hands him a mirror and Tim looks into it.

“Okay, I don’t think you need to remind me of how hot I am.”

Jason makes a disgusted noise. “No you idjit, here, look.” Jason takes the mirror and positions it so that he can take a good look at his hair.

Tim sucks in a breath. “Whoa,” is all he manages to say.

He snatches the mirror from Jason’s hand and goes to the bathroom, where there is a bigger mirror available for him to look at.

He looks at his hair, and the masterpiece Jason has turned it into. Jason has made his hair into a garden of colors. He’s done it in a French braid, with flowers intertwined in them. Tim has violets and whites blooming from his jet-black hair and a ribbon at the end to tie it all up. He doesn’t think he’s ever particularly paid attention to flowers before. He will, though, now that he knows it makes his hair look like a painting.

“How’s it?” Jason asks nervously from the doorway. His tone is hesitant, as if he’s scared Tim wouldn’t like it.

_As if._

Tim rushes to Jason to hug him. “Thank you, thank you, it’s really pretty, I love it,” he gushes out, his words muffled by Jason’s clothes.

The body beneath him is rigid, but Tim doesn’t let go, not until Jason melts against him a little bit and pats his head awkwardly.

“Yeah, yeah.”

Tim grins. The man would braid his hair with flowers but wouldn’t accept a simple hug.

Tim bounces on his feet to grab his phone. “I’m gonna take a million selfies with this.”

Jason laughs. “You go do you, Timmy.”

-

One week later Jason receives a package from FedEx.

It wouldn’t have really mattered. Except that:

  1. It was delivered to his safehouse.
  2. Nobody is supposed to _know_ where his safehouse is.
  3. He’s going to have to move if FedEx can have access to his safehouse.



He hesitates before opening it. He scans it with a bomb detector, a tracker detector, and chugs it through the X-Ray machine before setting it on the table and taking a deep breath.

Jason slowly unboxes it and grins when he sees what’s inside. He whistles as he holds it up and examines it. “Damn,” he mutters.

-

Another week later finds Jason undercover in a Queen gala. Technically, he’s not supposed to be here. Affiliation with Harper and all.

Technically, he doesn’t give a shit.

It’s Roy who needed him to be in this fancy manor after all. He’d needed some data that could only be gained physically. But Roy would rather shoot himself than enter the Queen residence. Jason doesn’t blame him; Oliver is a fucking dick.

Roy stays as the little voice in his ear though, smoothly maneuvering him through the crowd and giving a running commentary on the outfits of the night.

“…and that woman in front of you? With the horrible green dress? Who the hell wears a green dress with gold heels I mean c’mon people I know you’re filthy rich but that doesn’t mean you can pull of shit like that.”

Jason frowns and sends a questioning glance at the nearest surveillance camera.

“Oh, not you, Jay-B. You’re rocking that floral tie tonight, you look great.”

Jason smirks and smooths out imaginary wrinkles on his suit.

“Where did you get that anyway? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a floral kind of guy,” Roy adds.

Jason hums, absently touching the lavender-patterned tie on his chest.

“Oh, you know,” Jason drawls, “a little birdie sent it to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment? That will fuel me through life. Also hmu on my [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)


	6. burn my nerve endings and call it a night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stops his car in front of Gotham Cemetery, grabs his scarf where it’s laying on the passenger seat, grabs a bottle of vodka he specifically purchased for this occasion from the glove compartment—he pauses when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, but he fishes it out, turns it off, and tosses it to the backseat—and then he goes out to brave the cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally have no explanation for this. I just needed a detached Tim and Jason being a sweet older brother. Characterizations might be off, blame me.  
> Also, I got a little feedback saying that my writing is choppy? And I just. Y'all know English isn't even my /first/ language, right? Also I know my writing sucks and if you don't like it /literally/ do not read it. I'm sorry I'm so hung up on this, what can I say, I'm an insecure lil nugget.

When Tim steps outside the Wayne Inc. building, his shoe makes an indentation on the snow piled on the curb. A gust of wind sneaks its way between the uncovered parts of his body and he shivers, stuffing his hands on his coat pockets in hopes of saving them from frostbite. He berates himself for denying the hat and gloves that Alfred had pointedly left on his desk this afternoon.

He shuffles quickly into the car he’d parked earlier in front of the café across the street. He hadn’t thought an extra office hour on Christmas would turn into five, so he hadn’t bothered parking in the specially-reserved CEO (and much warmer) space on the basement.

Tim sighs when he gets to his car, and cranks up the heat as far as it can go. He does not enjoy the cold very much, it reminds him too much of—unpleasant memories.

(Dead bodies are always so, _so_ cold.)

He gets his car in gear and drives, not paying much attention to the slippery road. He’d installed chains on the tires, anticipating sleets of ice and hails instead of snow. After all, Gotham doesn’t play soft.

The sun is already down but the people of Gotham are only starting their activities. Badly-costumed-Santas and carolers wrapped in twelve layers of coats mill about, spreading Christmas cheer to whomever would listen. Kids play in the snow while their parents watch bemusedly from afar. The stores are alight with tacky Christmas decorations, promoting discounts and generally commercializing the holiday.

Tim drives past all of them.

He pulls a sharp turn towards a winding street down a road framed with tall trees, passing territories that had yet to be touched by humans.

Hadn’t been touched by greedy little corporate hands only because it's church property.

He stops his car in front of Gotham Cemetery, grabs his scarf where it’s laying on the passenger seat, grabs a bottle of vodka he specifically purchased for this occasion from the glove compartment—he pauses when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, but he fishes it out, turns it off, and tosses it to the backseat—and then he goes out to brave the cold.

He greets his mother first, her tombstone isn’t more worn out than his father’s even though it’s been there longer. The grass around them is kept, the flowers from Tim’s visit yesterday are still fresh.

Daisies, lavenders, hydrangeas.

His mother’s favorites.

He stands in front of the etched stone and takes a swig from the bottle. The liquor burns as it goes down. It warms and numbs him at the same time. He’d never make a habit out of drinking anything, but today—tonight, he'd make an exception.

“Hey, mom,” he starts, fiddling with his tie, “Merry Christmas. It’s um. It’s cold today.”

Tim rubs a hand over his face.

He was never good at talking to her when she was alive, turns out he doesn’t get any better after she died either.

He sighs, starts again. “ _God,_ I miss you,” he whispers, “so much. I wish—“

Tim stops. He falls silent and quirks up a small smile. “I wish, ha. What good does wishing do now?”

He doesn’t expect anybody to answer, Tim shrugs. “I guess I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing with my life,” he says.

Tim looks up at the grey sky, sucks in a shaky deep breath, and starts again.

-

The crunch of boots on frozen grass is what alerts Jason to Tim’s presence.

He shuts his phone off and pockets it, not bothering to straighten up from his sprawl on the hood of the car. Jason waits for the inevitable scolding at Jason's reckless position but it never comes. Instead, Tim's eyes only widen a little before they go chillingly distant. The boy’s nose is red from the cold—and so are the rims of his eyes. Jason notices the dusty layer of snow on his shoulders and the lack of bottle in his hand.

Tim stops a few feet in front of the car and stares. Jason narrows his eyes, nods at him and holds out his hand. “Keys?” he asks.

Tim hands them to Jason without a word. 

-

The drive back to the manor is silent.

Tim leans on the window with his eyes closed, his breath coming in and out steadily. It’s warm enough in the car for Jason to lose his coat—but Tim didn’t, if anything he pulled it tighter around his body.

As if the coat could protect him.

(From what? Jason’s mind unhelpfully supplies, from Jason? There’s a deep, twisting pang that comes with the thought, so Jason banishes it from his brain.)

The silence itches at Jason. Tim is never quiet, not around him. Tim is always filled with sarcastic little commentaries and quips and useless facts that a CEO-vigilante has no business knowing.

There’s a need under his skin to _know_. He needs to know what Dick meant when he’d asked Jason to pick Tim up from the cemetery in a panic-filled phone call. Needs to know why Dick begged him to look for the vodka, and to check _Tim’s hands for bleeding and glass shards,_ and to specifically not let Tim drive. Needs to know what could have put Tim in another dimension entirely.

He chances a glance at the boy. “Timbo?”

Tim doesn’t answer, his breathing barely changes, but Jason knows he’s not asleep.

(Tim’s self-imposed sleep cycle only permits him four hours of sleep each night. As unhealthy as that sounds, Jason knows he’s had his quota for the day.)

“Tim?”

No answer. Jason exhales through his nose, his grip on the steering wheel tightens.

“Tim, where’s the vodka?”

Jason steps on the brake and turns the car sharply when Tim remains silent. He doesn’t know what prompted him to do the action, nor can he justify what he says next.

 “Alright, that’s it. We’re going to my place,” he declares.

Tim cracks his eyes open at that, gives Jason a stare that unnerves him to the core.

Jason raises an eyebrow at Tim, challenging. “You got a problem with that, kid?”

Tim blinks. For a moment Jason thought he might have seen the normal Tim flash there somewhere but it’s gone as fast as it came.

“No,” he replies quietly, turning around to stare at the road again. “Where were you going to take me?”

“Dick wanted to you back at the manor.”

“Ah.”

Jason sighs.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” Jason intones. “Or how long it’s been going on, but I know Dick can be a little—“ Jason makes a motion with his hand to indicate how _suffocating_ their older brother can be. “Unless you’d rather be there?” Jason questions, for the first time, if taking Tim back to his safehouse would be the appropriate response to whatever rut Tim has slipped into.

“No,” Tim says, his voice flat and devoid of any emotion. "I don’t think I can be at the manor tonight.”

Jason opens his mouth but finds that he can’t reply with anything. “Alright,” he says, and nods.

The silence feels less heavy afterwards.

-

When they get there, Jason has to lead Tim up to his place.

Turns out Tim had drunk some of the vodka after all, because when he gets out of the car, he starts listing sideways and Jason has to physically haul him up the stairs.

Tim is still quiet, and it still puts Jason ill at ease but he has an inkling of what Tim is going through. Cemetery at Christmas. Aren’t the Drakes buried there?

Once inside, Tim shrugs off his coat and hangs it on instinct. He looks lost in Jason’s apartment, and that—that should never happen because this is _Jason_ and even though Jason has shat on Tim’s existence in the past, they had moved on and Tim is one of the people he could _trust._ Jason is Tim’s _brother_.

Jason touches Tim’s elbow gently and guides him to sit on the couch. “Tim?”

Tim looks at him and blinks. At this proximity he can smell the alcohol on Tim’s breath and he frowns. “Wait, are you drunk?”

Tim shrugs. “Probably? Who knows.”

“What? Jesus fuck.” Jason runs a hand through his hair. He probably should have asked that question before he got Tim in his apartment.

Tim leans back on the couch and throws an arm over his eyes. He makes a humming noise at Jason’s reaction.

“My parents are dead, Jason.”

Jason stares at Tim. Half taken aback by the sudden profession, half not surprised because—let’s face it, they’re all fucked up beyond reason at this point. “Yeah?”

Tim gives a shuddering sob, once. “Yeah,” and his voice cracks at the end. “It fucking sucks.”

“It does,” Jason agrees.

They stay like that for a while, Tim hides his face and both of them are quiet except for Tim’s heavy breathing and occasional sobs and hiccups. Jason would make the kid drink a gallon of water and check him for alcohol poisoning because he _doesn’t fucking know how much booze Tim drank_. But he has a feeling Tim won’t budge no matter what he does.

In the end of it Tim just sighs and faces Jason with watery eyes.

“You got any spare clothes?”

-

He does manage to get Tim to drink water after all. After changing out of his uncomfortable-looking suit into a pair of clothes that had somehow belonged to himself, Tim had sprawled out on the couch and refused to sleep, choosing instead to go through a Lord of the Rings marathon. Jason only lets him if he promises to finish whatever food Jason gives him. He can’t imagine Tim remembering to eat that day, not with the shit he was going through.

So Jason gets them blankets and they huddle in front of the TV. They watch the movies and Tim eats and drinks and Jason watches him closely, looking for any signs of trouble (God knows he’s had some _nasty_ experience with breakdowns). He’s relieved when Tim finally falls asleep halfway through the second movie, a piece of fry still dangling from his hand.

He tucks his little brother into bed afterwards, and hey, if he gives Tim a goodnight kiss on the forehead, nobody is around to testify to that.

-

In the morning Tim stumbles out of bed and throws himself on a kitchen stool. Jason is cooking eggs on the stove, he raises an eyebrow at Tim. The boy is occupying half the kitchen island and is generally being the little shit that he usually is.

He moans, clutching his head. “The pain! The pain of existence will end me. Kill me now Jason, for I cannot—“

Jason snorts and chucks a dishtowel at Tim’s head. “Oh shut up.” He rolls his eyes, but it’s fond.

Tim peers up at him, his eyes are animated. They’re—Tim. They’re the same icy blue as the person’s he picked up from the cemetery yesterday but they have warmth in them.  It might be a little _too_ animated, but hey, Jason knows what it feels like to want to _compensate_. “Inside voice, please, Jay,” Tim whispers.

“Um. _Excuse me._ Which one of us yelled at the top of their lungs as soon as they get out of bed?” Jason asks, raising his volume as he speaks.

“Ouch. No okay, that seriously hurts my brain. I can feel it leaking out of my ears. Eugh,” Tim complains, pressing his forehead to the cool marble of the island.

“Yeah, yeah, and what would we do without your brain Timbo,” Jason says, sliding a plate of breakfast in front of Tim and setting a mug of coffee next to it. Tim looks up and grins.

“Thanks Jay, you’re the best,” he coos, taking a sip of the coffee. Tim closes his eyes and sighs. “Ah yes, the sweet nectar of _life_.”

Jason turns back to his cooking. “And they say _I’m_ the dramatic one,” he mutters.

“Jay,” Tim calls him. Jason turns around to find Tim smiling softly at him.

He looks more like himself now. Even with the mussed up hair and the bags underneath his eyes and the possible liver failure. He's undoubtedly, a hundred percent Tim.

“Thanks,” he says.

Jason smiles back, lets it be soft and affectionate. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please leave a comment. I need to know what you think about it! Also as always, thank you for reading, I appreciate it <3
> 
> Visit me on my [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)


	7. birds don't sing; they fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is great!"
> 
> "Yes it is." Dick agrees. "Remember, the air is your friend, tread it gently. Aim, breathe, and shoot," he adds.
> 
> In which Dick teaches a young one how to to fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello good people! I am back with yet another brotherly bonding chapter. Med school is still killing be, and some disclaimers need to be made.  
> 1\. I don't know how tall buildings are supposed to be. We Indonesians use the metric system, I'm adjusting cos batfam is in 'murica.  
> 2\. This is set shortly after Tim became Robin. Dick's still feeling Things over Jay and Bruce so take that as you want.  
> 3\. Have fun and enjoy!

In the words of someone very famous: things are about to get done fucked up.

Well, maybe it wasn’t someone famous who said those words. Maybe it was Tim’s own words. He was famous. Somewhat.

It’s the sentiment that counts.

"You see, Tim, it starts with a jump." Dick grins at him, all in his newly-upgraded Nightwing glory. The masked man has one foot on the ledge, observing the 330-foot drop with ease. Tim reluctantly goes beside him and joins in, peering over.

Something he definitely should not have done.

Tim backs away very slowly, giving himself and the ledge a very good distance.

"Uh, are you sure about this, Nightwing?" He laughs nervously. "Not that I’m scared, I just don’t want to end as Robin pancake on my first days of the job."

The smile Nightwing gives him is positively insane. "You’ll be fine," Nightwing waves him off. "I’ll be here to give you guidance." Nightwing taps his ear, where his communicator is snugly fitted in.

Considering that Dick had almost missed a grapple hook shot just yesterday does nothing to enforce the feeling of security of having him as his guide.

Tim nods anyway, mostly out of distraction.

He tries to calculate the angles which he has to take to make the perfect landing. They’ve both targeted a slightly shorter building just two streets over. It’s not that Tim’s never made a swing before. It’s just that 20 feet and 330 feet are different heights, and like he’d said, staying alive will probably be nice.

"Hmm." Tim glances at the building across, and the building next to it, and makes a plan.

-

There’s nothing but a furrowed pair of brows to indicate the cogs turning inside Tim’s head. Dick’s gotten used to it over the past month, the way Tim disconnects from the world when he thinks.

He waits it out, humming a song and tapping his finger against his thigh. It’s been a while since he goes out at night just for the sake of going out. Bludhaven is hell on earth and the Titans are giving him a headache. He’d die for both of those things but still, it’s nice and relaxing to hang out with the newbie and teach him some new tricks. Something about the innoncence in those eyes and the non-convoluted way newbie's mind still works, he thinks. 

His first big drop had been from the Wayne Inc. Building. Batman had been fighting Scarecrow then, and Robin had needed to do a triple somersault in the air from the  _very top of_  Wayne Inc. Building. Don’t ask him why, Dick doesn’t think he could explain the incidence without making it look like he comitted homicide.

Which, actually, kind of goes for most things in his life.

Dick touches Tim’s shoulder gently to take his attention. "Hey, Boy Wonder."

"Huh?"

"Ready?" Dick encourages.

Tim sighs. "As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess."

"You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to."

"No." Tim shakes his head. "I want to, just. The nerves."

"Right." Dick quirks up a smile. "Remember your lessons and you’ll be fine," he assures the boy.

Tim nods. He readies his grappling hook and steps on the ledge. He makes a show of rolling his shoulders and neck, as if doing so would help with his elasticity or his swing.

"Don’t look down, now."

"You saying that is only going to make me look down."

Dick’s smile widens into a grin. "Relax, focus."

"Right."

Tim takes the shot; Dick holds his breath.

-

The grappling hook catches and Tim jumps.

"Feel the wind on your face, Timmy." Is the first thing he says to Tim.

"Yes, like that. Swing, no Timmy not like that. Use your whole weight. Aim with the legs," Dick inputs. The boy does what he’s told, putting the momentum and all of his weight centered onto his the ball of his feet. He cuts the air in two with a graceful arc and a laugh.

"This is great!" 

"Yes it is." Dick agrees. "Remember, the air is your friend, tread it gently. Aim, breathe, and shoot," he adds.

Tim pulls out his other grappling hook before the momentum of his swing is up. It catches nicely on an adjacent building.

"Yes! Now you’re getting it."

But as he starts on to his third building, Tim almost misses.

“Tim!” Worry and surprise makes their presence known inside his chest and stomach. It goes as fast as it came after Tim yells a loud “I’m fine!” into the comms. He wonders briefly if this is how other members of the Justice League felt when _he_ was Robin and knew that he was swinging from rooftops towards his potential deaths. No wonder they were always so eager to get Bruce to exclude him from joining Batman in patrols.

“Breathe, Tim, don’t forget to breathe,” Dick reminds him. “With your whole body—like that. Doing great, Timbo.”

When Tim is able to sail through the air like a pro, whooping and yelling with delight, Dick grins and fires off his own grappling hook.

Tim waits for him at their marked building with a big smile on his face.

“Holy shit that was awesome!”

Dick holds out his hand. “High-five, Timbers, that was _indeed_ awesome.”

Tim slaps his hand with the enthusiasm of a puppy. He’s jumping up and down now—basically vibrating—high on adrenaline and epinephrine. It reminds Dick of how young Tim is.

The boy quickly schools his face into something more serious. “We’re totally doing that again."

Dick only laughs shortly and ruffles his hair. There's a small warmth nestling underneath his sternum. It seems to have radiated from Tim and stayed there, where Dick would always carry it.

“You know,” Dick drawls, stepping onto the edge of the building. He turns his back on the drop to face a still-smiling Robin. “Batman might teach you how to swing but I can teach you how to fly.” Dick grins. “It’s easy, you know? First,” Dick leans his whole body back towards the drop and lets himself fall over; he doesn’t miss Tim’s startled gasp over their comm-line.

“You start with a jump.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Did you enjoy that? Or did you find some mistakes? Let me know with a comment below ;)
> 
> Visit me on my [tumblr](http://p-p-poy.tumblr.com/)  
> or check out my [DC sideblog](http://sneakytimmytime.tumblr.com/)


	8. with a gentle pat on the back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Afternoon naps are something he had never gotten to do. Between his anxiety and his parents’ demands, afternoons in his childhood meant violin lessons or being trapped inside the house relentlessly wondering whether his parents had forgotten to go home again or not. At the ripe age of nineteen, Tim is only starting to appreciate the activity.
> 
> In which boys get warm naps because they deserve them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up my darlings, I am b a c k!  
> Actually, scratch that, I'm not. School is killing me and I've been meaning to finish my other fics but I can't bring myself to. So.
> 
> Please enjoy this one!
> 
> disc: english is not my native language so please if there are any mistakes, forgive me and point them out! thanks

“Hey, Timbo.”

Tim grunts.

“Tim.”

“Huh?” Tim mumbles out.

“Timmm,” Dick continues, nudging Tim’s calf with his foot.

“What?” Tim replies annoyedly, one hand shooting up in a poor attempt to slap Dick’s foot away from his leg, only to have it flop back onto the blanket underneath.

“Pass me the water why don’t ya.”

Tim sighs and feels for the bottle of water he had put a little way away above his head. To no avail, he only feels the edge of the blanket, the one they’d bring from the attic to lie on, but no bottle.

Tim frowns and cranes his neck up, he brings his hand above his head and stretches to get the straying bottle, and immediately chucks it to Dick’s general position.

Dick yelps and sits up.

His older brother tsks. “Rude.”

Tim purses his lips and shrugs, returning his eyes to the thick foliage of the tree above him. A gentle wind passes by and the leaves dance, nudging each other with regard, parting, at times, to let tresses of sunlight slither through the gaps they make.

The sun had been tempting, and the air had taken a friendly temperature that afternoon. Tim almost resisted successfully; unfinished cases and Wayne Enterprises was calling for him. But when he caught Dick longingly gazing through the window, his resolve had crumbled, and his impulsivity had won. They grabbed an old blanket from the attic and laid it down underneath one of the ancient, gigantic trees in the lawn. Tim’s high-school level biology doesn’t give him enough authority to identify the species of the tree, but he’s decided to call the tree Sam.

“Thanks, Sam,” he murmurs.

“What was that?” Dick responds, he’s gone back to lying down.

“I’m calling this tree Sam.”

“Why?”

“Because,” he says.

Afternoon naps are something he had never gotten to do. Between his anxiety and his parents’ demands, afternoons in his childhood meant violin lessons or being trapped inside the house relentlessly wondering whether his parents had forgotten to go home again or not. At the ripe age of nineteen, Tim is only starting to appreciate the activity. The blanket is soft underneath him, and the breeze blissful. The warmth isn’t searing, it’s embracing, lulling, and it leaves him contently drowsy. He feels almost weightless, like that brief period in a jump where you are perfectly suspended in the air.

He yawns and closes his eyes, and lets the deities of sleep slowly pull him under.

-

Somebody is shaking his shoulder, a hand that occasionally goes to his hair to mildly card its fingers through it. A voice, is also calling. Baritone and comforting.

“Tim?”

It’s muddy under, but there isn’t that usual, urgent need to leap out of bed. Tim eases himself into awareness but doesn’t want to let go of that peaceful feeling of rest yet. He opens his eyes slowly, and blinks the world into focus.

Bruce is squatting next to him, suit jacket slung over one shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled onto his elbows.

Tim yawns and stretches. “Alfred is going to kill you if he sees you like that.”

Bruce quirks up a smile. “He might try.”

“He might succeed,” Tim replies, pushing himself up to a sitting position. Dick is still fast asleep, his head near Tim’s ankles and his face dived into the blanket, snoring softly. The usual lines on his face nonexistent.

Tim scoots over to make room for Bruce in the makeshift rug.

He looks up, and a viciously tender feeling seems to have grasped him. He is suddenly reminded of everything he didn’t do (all the people he didn’t manage to save, his parents, his sins), but at the same breath, of all the things he cherishes in the world (his family, Titans, being _alive_ ). The sky is bleeding reds and oranges and purples across its vast body and it’s making the loveliest shade of sunset that Tim has ever seen. Even the clouds are colored, he didn’t know it was scientifically possible for clouds to be that shade.

“Nice,” he can’t help but whisper.

Bruce looks up. “Yeah,” he says, and after a beat, “good nap?”

“Very, Dick dragged me here.”

“Hmm,” Bruce hums.

“I know, I know. I’ll get back to my paperwork and sample handling later. I just,” he sighs, “couldn’t help myself.”

“It’s fine,” Bruce answers, “it was a nice day. I also couldn’t help myself. Went home early and went for a walk in the woods.”

“Is that a lie?” Tim raises an eyebrow. “How are your clothes still clean.”

Bruce looks at him. “Superpowers.” He says, deadpan.

Tim squints and stares at Bruce.

Bruce’s face remains impassive.

“Mmhmh,” Dick mumbles unhelpfully.

“I tried waking that one up.” Bruce points to Dick. “For about ten minutes, wouldn’t budge.”

Tim laughs softly. “Yeah, Dick’s been up for two days now.”

Bruce hums again.

They watch the clouds pass by and sometimes, Dick’s face as he goes through the adventures in his dream (Tim is sure it’s an adventure because there was one moment where Dick threw a punch). It almost feels like a dream. Being there with Bruce, talking about the impossibility of staying clean while foraging through the woods, with the weather so nice and their lives so relaxed.

It’s unreal.

“—not to mention all the dead animals and leaves that—” Tim halts in the middle of his argument, stopping his brain before it could latch on to that one single string of thought and conjures a bait for his anxiety to take.

“Tim?” Bruce asks.

Tim looks at his hands, at the webbed scars crisscrossing his knuckles. It’s unreal. He blinks.

 _No._ He thinks to himself. _This is real._

“Tim?” Bruce asks again, worry in his voice, only apparent to those who knows where to look.

Tim shakes himself out of his head. “Yeah, I was saying uh. It’s impossible to walk into the woods for one hour and like, not get dirty. Also, it’s getting late, we should head in.”

Bruce nods, a frown still present on his face. “Okay,” he answers. “How are we going to get _that_ into the mansion though.” Bruce points his chin at Dick.

“I think might have an idea,” Tim replies.

-

“I can’t believe,” Nightwing says, doing an aerial kick, “that you would leave me like that!”

“Dick,” Tim answers, whipping a guy’s face with his bo staff, “it’s been three days! Please let that go, oh my God.”

“No,” Dick says, “I can’t believe that my own little brother—”

“Shut up, Boy Burrito,” Jason cuts in in the comms. “You’re so noisy. ETA 60 secs, be prepared for a bike. RR make way.”

“Copy that.”

“You’re one to talk, Hood.” Robin chips.

“Is that boy demon? Where is he?”

“Other side of the city, with Batgirl,” Tim answers.

“I can’t believe that—” before Dick can finish his sentence, Tim flips backwards right as Jason barges into the scene with his bike, hitting five guys with it before jumping off from it, letting the vehicle spin until it hits a wall and landing on his feet, guns poised in his both of his hands.

“Fuck yeah, I’m so cool!” Red Hood yells, hitting a goon with the butt of his gun.

Tim rolls his eyes.

“Are you sure?” Black Bat joins in on the link. “I think I’m cooler.”

“Well you are, sis, but you should’ve _seen_ my entrance. It beats all mothers of entrances.”

Nightwing punches a man and jumps onto another’s neck, gripping the man’s neck with his thighs and rolls forward, bringing the man down. “Wait, where’s Black Bat?”

“Here.”

“Nightwing, that is _such_ a slutty move,” Red Hood comments.

“Wait, what do you _mean_ by here—”

“Hood!”

“Did Nightwing do the thigh strangle? Did he? Jason did he?” Batgirl yells into the comms.

“Kids.” Batman cuts in, voice like gravel, “chatter.”

Red Hood laughs.

Robin immediately replies with an obedient “Yes, Batman.”

Batgirl follows it with a snort while Red Robin shuts up but rolls his eyes.

“Aye-aye captain,” Nightwing says cheekily.

Black Bat remains silent.

Oracle sips her coffee pointedly, loud slurping broadcasted into all the little pieces in the others’ ears, and says, very menacingly. “If you all don’t shut up, I will personally fry all your equipment right here, right now.”

That earns her a chorus of “Yes ma’ams” and one very particular “Love you, Babs, please don’t kill me,” from the bunch.

Once the silence settles, they move methodically, bringing the goons one by one while Batman works on Two-Face, who owns this operation, downtown.

“I’m done here,” Batman announces. “Red Robin, is everything under control?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Robin? Batgirl?”

“We’re good.”

“I’m going to the docks. Something’s come up.”

“Wait, wait,” Red Hood interrupts. “Aren’t you going to ask Black Bat if she needs anything?”

“I don’t need to,” Batman answers.

“Well,” Red Hood remarks, “that’s fair.”

-

Back in the mansion, when everybody’s already piled up in Bruce’s bed—as is done whenever everybody is in town—Tim’s brain won’t shut up, so he gets out of Bruce’s room and heads down to the cave.

Bruce is there when he arrives, his suit half on. He’s only missing his gauntlets and his cowl; the latter being pushed back from his face. Bruce doesn’t look up at all from the Bat-Computer when Tim slides past him. The boy pulls up a chair and settles his laptop on a work table nearby. They work in a comfortable silence, each to their own computers.

Until an hour later, when Tim hears the creak of a chair, and then the Batsuit comes into focus next to him.

“Hey, Tim?”

“Yeah?” Tim looks up.

Bruce smiles, as soft as Bruce would let it be, which, being Batman, is not soft enough. He uncrosses his arms though and ruffles his son’s hair. “Everything good?”

Tim pauses his typing. His mind goes back to that afternoon three days ago, the serenity of the sun, and the tree named Sam, thinks about his siblings all drooling upstairs, Alfred probably still up mending a gauntlet in the workshop, and Oracle brilliantly scheming in her nest.

Tim smiles.

“Yeah,” he answers, “everything’s good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo how did you find that? Let me know with a comment below :D  
> Also follow me on tumblr! It's poythefloat, or my DC sideblog, sneakytimmytime


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